“Renny,” she said, “I have made up my mind.”
“What about?” asked Verena. “Why, Pauline, you do look bad. Your face is as white as a sheet.”
“I shall have to explain,” continued Pauline. “I am going to tell how I got the burn on my arm.”
Verena gave a great sigh of relief.
“I am glad,” she cried. “It is far better to tell.”
“So I think,” said Pauline in an airy fashion. “Give me a kiss, Verena; I must dress for dinner, and I haven’t a moment to lose.”
“You will wear your pretty blouse?”
“Certainly.”
Pauline dashed out of the room, banging the door noisily after her.94
“I wonder what she means,” thought Verena. “She is certainly getting rather queer. I am afraid she has a terrible secret on her mind. I am glad she means to confess, poor darling! I seem to have less influence over her than I used to have, and yet I love no one like Paulie. She is all the world to me. I love her far better than the others.”
Meanwhile Pauline, with great difficulty, put on her pretty evening-blouse. How she hated those elbow-sleeves! How she wished the little soft chiffon frills were longer! At another time she would have been delighted with her own reflection in the glass, for a cream-colored silk blouse suited her. She would have liked to see how well she looked in this new and fashionable little garment. She would have been pleased, too, with the size and brilliancy of her black eyes. She would have admired that flush which so seldom visited her sallow cheeks; she would even have gazed with approbation1 at her pearly-white teeth. Oh, yes, she would have liked herself. Now she felt that she hated herself. She turned from the glass with a heavy sigh.
Having finished her toilet, she wrapped a soft muslin handkerchief round her wounded arm and ran downstairs. Her aunt was already in the drawing-room, but to Pauline’s relief no one else was present. The little girl ran up to her aunt, dropped a curtsy, and looked somewhat impertinently into her face.
“Here I am,” she said; “and how do I look?”
“You have put on your blouse, Pauline. It suits you. Turn round and let me see how it fits at the back. Oh! quite nicely. I told Miss Judson to make the blouses in a simple fashion, so that they could be washed again and again. But what is the matter, my dear? Your face is very white. And—why, my dear Pauline, what is wrong with your arm?”
“I have something to confess, Aunt Sophy. I hope you won’t be terribly angry.”
“Something to confess, my dear child? Well, I am glad you have the courage to confess when you do wrong. There is nothing like owning up one’s faults, Pauline. There is nothing else that really strengthens the soul. Well, I am listening, dear. Now, what is it?”
Pauline slowly unfastened the handkerchief which she had bound round her arm, and showed the great burn to Miss Tredgold.
Miss Tredgold started, uttered an exclamation2, took the little arm in her hand, and looked tenderly at the ugly place.
“My poor little girl,” she said. “Do you mean that you have been suffering from this all this time? But how in the world did it happen?”95
“That is what I want to confess. I did something extremely naughty the day you kept me in Punishment Land.”
“What was it?”
“You sent me to bed at seven o’clock.”
“Yes; that was part of the punishment.”
“Well, I didn’t like it. Oh! here comes Verena. Renny, I am confessing my sins.”
Verena ran up, her face full of anxiety. She put her arm round Pauline’s waist.
“See how bad her poor arm is,” she said, glancing at Miss Tredgold.
“Yes,” said Miss Tredgold, “it is badly hurt; but don’t interrupt, Verena. I am listening to the story of how Pauline burnt her arm.”
“You sent me to bed at seven o’clock,” said Pauline, who, now that she had embarked3 on her narrative4, felt emboldened5 and, strange to say, almost enjoyed herself. “I could not possibly sleep at seven o’clock, you know; so, to amuse myself, I tried on my new white dress; and then I lit a candle, drew down the blinds, and looked at myself in the glass. I was so pleased! I did look nice; I felt quite conceited6.”
“You needn’t tell me how you felt, Pauline. I want to hear facts, not accounts of your feelings. You did wrong to put on your white dress, for it had already been fitted on by the dressmaker, and it was being carefully kept for Sunday wear. But proceed. After you lit the candle and drew down the blinds what happened?”
“A great puff7 of wind came in through the window, and it blew the blind against the candle, and the flame of the candle came towards me, and I had my hand up to arrange my hair. I was fastening it up with hairpins8 to make myself look quite grown-up.”
“Well?”
“And the candle caught my sleeve and set it on fire.”
Miss Tredgold now began to look so pale that Verena vaguely9 wondered if she were going to faint. The little culprit, however, stood bolt upright and gazed with defiant10 black eyes at her aunt.
“Yes,” said Pauline, “I suffered awful pain, and the sleeve blazed up like anything; but I ran to the basin of water and put it out. I was afraid to tell you. I had to tell Renny that I had burnt my arm, but I didn’t tell her how it happened, and I wouldn’t allow her to breathe to you that I was in pain. That was the reason I could not wear my pretty blouse last night, and you were angry with me. I hope you won’t be angry any more; but the sleeve of the dress is burnt badly. Perhaps you won’t give me any birthday present because the sleeve of my new dress is so much injured.”96
“I will see about that. The thing is to cure your arm. The doctor must come immediately.”
“But it is getting better.”
“You must see the doctor,” said Miss Tredgold.
“Have you told the truth?” asked Verena suddenly.
Pauline nodded with such a savage12 quickness that it made her sister positively13 certain that she had not heard the right story.
Miss Tredgold came back in a minute.
“I have sent for Dr. Moffat,” she said. “I hope he will be here after dinner. My dear child, why didn’t you tell me before?”
“You are a very queer child, and I may as well tell you frankly15 you are talking nonsense. You did wrong, of course, to put on the white dress; but I think, my dear, your sufferings have been your punishment. We will say no more now about the burnt sleeve. Fortunately I have plenty of the same muslin in the house, and the mischief16 can be quickly repaired. Now, dear, lie back in that chair. No; you are not to come in to dinner. It shall be sent to you here on a tray.”
For the rest of the evening Pauline was so pitied and fussed over, and made so thoroughly17 comfortable, that she began to think the black, black lie she had uttered quite a good thing.
“Here am I half out of my scrape,” she thought. “Now, if I can only persuade Nancy not to force us to go to that midnight picnic, and not to tell if we don’t go, and if I can get the thimble back, I shall be once more as happy as the day is long. This wicked black lie shall not frighten me. There is no other way out. I cannot possibly tell the truth. What would Nancy think if I did?”
The doctor came. He ordered a healing lotion18 for the arm; he also felt the pulse of the little patient. He declared her to be slightly feverish19, and ordered her to bed.
Half the next day Pauline stayed in her comfortable bed. She was fed with dainties by Aunt Sophia, was not expected to learn any lessons, and was given a fascinating story-book to wile20 away the time. During the morning, when she was not engaged in the schoolroom, Miss Tredgold stayed by the little girl’s side, and mended the burnt dress, cutting out a new sleeve and putting it in with deft21, clever fingers.
Pauline watched her as one fascinated. As she looked and observed the graceful22 figure, the kindly23 expression of the eyes, and the noble pose of the head, there stole over her desolate24 little heart a warm glow. She began to love 97Aunt Sophia. When she began to love her she began also to hate herself.
“I don’t want to love her a bit,” thought the child. “I want quite to detest25 her. If I love her badly—and perhaps I may—it will make things that must happen much more difficult.”
Aunt Sophia left the room. She came back presently with a dainty jelly and some home-made biscuits. She put an extra pillow at Pauline’s back, and placed the little tray containing the tempting26 food in front of her.
“What are you thinking about, Paulie?” she asked suddenly.
“About how nice you are,” answered the child; and then she added, “I don’t want you to be nice.”
“Why so?”
“Because I don’t. I can’t tell you more than just I don’t.”
Miss Tredgold said nothing more. She resumed her work, and Pauline ate her jelly.
“Aunt Sophy,” she said presently, “I want to be awfully27 good at my lessons next week. I want to learn real desperate hard. I want to turn into a very clever girl. You’d like me to be clever, wouldn’t you?”
“Perhaps I should be,” said Pauline. “I was always thought rather smart. I like people to call me smart. You don’t want me to turn stupid because I may get conceited.”
“No, dear; I want you to be natural. I want you to try very hard to be learned, to be good, to be a lady. I want you to be the sort of woman your mother would have wished you to be had she lived. I want you to grow up strong in mind and strong in body. I want you to be unselfish. I want you to look upon life as a great gift which you must not abuse, which you must make use of. I want you, Paulie, and your sisters to be the best in every sense of that great word. You will fail. We all fail at times; but there is forgiveness for each failure if you go to the right and only source. Have I said enough?”
“Yes,” said Pauline in a low voice.
Her conscience was pricking29 her. She lowered her eyes; the long black lashes30 trembled with tears. Miss Tredgold stooped and kissed her.
“I hear Briar in the garden,” she said. “I will send her up to you. Be as merry as you please with her, and forget my words for the present.”
Pauline got up in time for late dinner. She was, of course, excused wearing her dinner-blouse, and was still treated somewhat as an invalid31. But on Sunday morning she was so much better that she was able to wear her white dress, and able also to join her sisters in the garden.98
They all went to the pretty little church in the next village, and Miss Tredgold accompanied them.
Looking back on it afterwards, that Sunday always seemed to Pauline like an exquisite32 dream of peace. Her lie did not press at all against her heart. The discomfort33 of it was for the time in abeyance34. She tried to forget Miss Tredgold’s ideal girl; she was happy without knowing why. She was happy, but at the same time she was quite well aware of the fact that her happiness would come to an end on Sunday night. She was quite certain that on Monday morning her grave and terrible troubles would begin. She would have to see Nancy. She would have to decide with regard to the midnight picnic. There was no joy for Pauline in the thought of that picnic now, but she dared not stay away from it, for if she did Nancy would have her way. Nancy’s temper, quick and hot as a temper could be, would blaze up. She would come to Miss Tredgold and tell her everything. If it had been awful to Pauline’s imagination to think of Miss Tredgold knowing the truth before, what would it be to her now after the lie she had told?
“I must coax35 Nancy,” thought the little girl to herself. “I must tell her that I can’t go to the picnic, and I must implore36 her not to tell. Oh, what shall I do? How shall I persuade her?”
On Sunday morning, therefore, notwithstanding her promises, Pauline was inattentive at lessons. But Miss Tredgold was not inclined to be over-severe. The doctor had said that the child had not only been badly burnt, but had also received a nervous shock. He had further added that the more liberty she was given, and the more fresh air just at present, the better.
Accordingly Pauline was sent into the garden long before the others had finished their lessons. She presently sat down under the shade of a tree. She was not to meet Nancy till six o’clock.
By-and-by Penelope came out, saw her sister, and ran towards her.
“Have you got the thimble?” she asked.
“Of course I haven’t. I don’t know anything about the thimble. What do you mean?”
Penelope looked at her in puzzled wonder.
“I thought you did know about it,” she said, disappointment stealing over her shrewd little face.
“I don’t know anything about it. Don’t worry me.”
“You are so cross that I’m sure you have done something desperate naughty,” said Penelope. “I want to find out what it is, and I don’t want to stay with you. I think you are horrid38.”99
She marched away defiantly39, her squat40 little figure and bare legs looking so comical that Pauline burst out laughing.
“What am I coming to?” she said to herself. “This is lie number two. Oh, dear! I feel just as if a net were surrounding me, and the net was being drawn41 tighter each moment, and I was being dragged into a pit out of which there is no escape. What shall I do?”
Just then Mr. Dale, who seldom left the house, appeared in view. He was walking slowly, his hands thrust into his pockets, his head bent42 forward; he was murmuring some sentences of his beloved Virgil to himself. He took no notice of Pauline. He did not even see her. Neither did he notice the chair in which she was sitting. He came bang up against her before he knew that she was there.
“What have I done?” he exclaimed. “Oh, it is you, Pauline! How inconsiderate of you to sit like this on the lawn!”
“But we always sit on the chairs, dad,” said Pauline, springing to her feet.
He forgot that he had made the remark. He laid his hand on her shoulder.
“I have been having a delightful43 time,” he said—“truly a delightful time. All this morning I have been in contact with noble thoughts. My child, can you realize, even dimly, what it is to dip into those mines of wealth—those mines of illimitable wisdom and greatness and strength and power? Oh, the massiveness of the intellects of the old classic writers! Their lofty ideas with regard to time and eternity—where can their like be found?”
Pauline yawned.
“Are you tired?” asked her father.
“No—only worried,” she answered.
She did not know why she made the latter remark; but at the same time she was perfectly44 well aware that anything she said to her father was safe, as he would absolutely forget it in the course of the next minute. He was roused now from his visions of the past by a certain pathos45 in the little face. He put his arm round the child and drew her to him.
“My dear, pretty little girl,” he said.
“Am I pretty?” asked Pauline.
He gazed at her out of his short-sighted eyes.
“I think not,” he said slowly. “I was imagining you were Verena, or perhaps Briar. Briar is certainly very pretty. No, Pauline, you are not pretty; you are plain. But never mind; you have perhaps got”—he put a finger on each temple—“you have perhaps got something greater.”
“It doesn’t matter if you are plain or not,” said Pauline almost crossly, “when you are awfully worried.”
“But what worries you, my child? I would not have 100one so young subjected to worries. My dear, is it possible that you already are perplexed46 with the ways of this present life? Truly, I am scarcely surprised. The life we lead in these degenerate47 days is so poor; the giants have left the earth, and only the pigmies are left. Don’t worry about life, child; it isn’t worth while.”
“I am not,” said Pauline bluntly. “I am worrying because——”
“Because of what, dear?”
“Because I am going to be desperately48 naughty.”
Mr. Dale shook his head slowly.
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “It is very uncomfortable and wrong, and it sullies the conscience. When the conscience gets sullied the nature goes down—imperceptibly, perhaps, but still it goes down. If your worry is an affair of the conscience, take it to Him who alone can understand you.”
“You mean God?” she said. “Will He help me?”
“Certainly He will. He is the Great Deliverer, and His strength is as immeasurable as it ever was. He gave power to the martyrs51 to go through the flames. He will help a little, weak girl if she asks Him. Oh, my dear, it has struck twelve! I have lost a quarter of an hour. Don’t keep me another moment.”
The scholar and dreamer hurried to the house. Long before he got there he had forgotten Pauline and her childish worries. She was going to be desperately naughty. He certainly no longer remembered those words.
Meanwhile the child stayed behind with her hands clasped.
“I wish he had told me more,” she said to herself. “I don’t believe God could put this straight.”
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1
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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7
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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8
hairpins
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| n.发夹( hairpin的名词复数 ) | |
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9
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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10
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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11
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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12
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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15
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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lotion
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| n.洗剂 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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31
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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35
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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38
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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45
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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48
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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49
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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51
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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